“Lord,” Sam says with awe, “you sure know how to make a beautiful black woman gorgeous—damn—I am the queen!”

The four of us giggle. Lilly’s under the dryer with a stack of pink rollers piled artfully on her head. Ruby is in the chair next to Sam; we have color processing our gray away. Sam’s sitting “queen bee,” hand mirror in hand, admiring my handiwork. Nancy Wilson is singing “As Time Goes By” softly in the background.

“Good thing,” Sam adds, “there ain’t no men in here…I’m too busy admiring my beauty to have the energy to fight ’em all off. How’d you braid my braids like that?”

“Sheer talent,” I say, taking the mirror and then standing behind her.

We regard each other’s reflections. I’ve taken all her shoulder-length cornrowed braids and woven them into a beautiful bun up on top of her head. It’s as though she’s wearing a crown. Then, using thin, black wire, I wove red and yellow glass beads into my creation. Her almond eyes sparkle with pride and knowing and such gratitude—I have to smile back.

“If you’re done,” Ruby says, peering over the top of a magazine, “I for one would like very much to have this goop removed so I may once again face my public.” She dramatically turns pages and huffs a bit.

“What I wouldn’t do,” Lilly yells, more than necessary from under the dryer, “to not have to go through all this hell and high water to achieve a sense of…of…”

“Beauty, darling,” Ruby offers and tsk-tsks.

“I was thinking,” Lilly says, “more in terms of height, actually. I will never be able to have my hair any less than a good foot up in the air and feel pretty. I know good and well that my hairdo style is long gone and been put to rest, but I like it and it’s the only way I feel attractive.”

The three of us turn toward Lilly, who never has commented on her own beehive-to-heaven hair; now I’m not sure how to proceed. I mean it is the most outdated, crazy-looking hairstyle around, but it’s her, after all. I don’t know if I’d know her any other way, and really, what hairstyle hasn’t been and come and gone and then returned? The beehive.

“Girl,” Sam coos, “if that’s what makes you you, why then—why in the world change a thing?”

We nod, I look over toward Ruby, and she shrugs her shoulders.

“I’ve looked and looked,” Lilly continues, “at all the latest styles, and I for one think that anyone who actually pays someone to look like they just crawled out of bed, well, count me out.” She pulls the dryer hood back down to put a period on things.

I swirl Sam’s chair back around to the mirror and the three of us chuckle.

“You know,” Ruby offers in a low conspiratorial voice, “how about you finish up Sam, who’s the only natural beauty here, rinse me out and get some curlers in my hair. I’m feeling a ‘Lilly look’ coming on.”

I regard myself in the mirror. My curls are parted down the center, the color has turned dark and is ready to be rinsed out, but it would be a riot to whip Ruby and my hair up to the ceiling like Lilly’s—what the hell?

“Sure is a shame,” Sam says, heading over to a comfy chair nearby, “your Helen’s mama is so pigheaded about Thanksgiving and all.”

“I guess I can’t blame her,” I reply, while shampooing Ruby’s head in my red sink. “I wanted her to know she’s welcome here with us, but I kind of figured her mom would want her home.”

Ruby reaches up and pats my arm. “We’ll freeze a bit of our turkey feast and have her and Ryan over another time then, shall we? Speaking of freeze—could I have some hot water as well?”

“Fussy fussy—you know, we really should do up our hair,” I suggest, wrapping Ruby’s hair in a towel, turban-style, and leading her back to my chair. “Have we heard back from Bonnie and Marsha yet?”

“Howard,” Sam offers, “that handsome thing—told Lilly and me they was planning on coming to our gathering seeing as Al’s Place is closed the rest of the week. ’Course it’s gunna just kill that woman to not be taking everyone’s money for two whole days.”

“Nothing wrong,” I say, “with her hauling in some dough. After all she’s been through, I’m thrilled to see her doing so well. I wonder if she’ll bring over Charlie?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I rang him up myself,” Ruby offers nonchalantly, “and he just happens to not be busy. I did mention that Bonnie would be joining us—and that seemed to help make up his mind a bit quicker. Imagine, Bonnie could very well be his daughter—really.”

Lilly pushes up the dryer hood, clicks it off and then comes over to sit in the chair Ruby was in earlier. Her face is flush from the heat. The pink curlers remind me of when I first met Bonnie. She came here looking for a job, forgetting that she had curlers in her hair, and I had all I could do not to burst out laughing.

All the stuff we women do, makeup and hair color, boob jobs and remember girdles? Yet, if it really does make us feel better, why the hell not?

“I just trimmed your ends,” I remind Ruby. “So, if you’re serious—how high would you like this do to—do?”

“Give that Lilly some competition,” Ruby chides. “Now get cracking!”

Ruby and I are out back in the barn. We’re rummaging through stuff from our previous lives in Eau Claire, in search of a huge black trunk. Finally we locate the damn thing. I’ve got its enormous top thrown open and now I’m elbow-deep in Ruby’s vast collection of formal-yet-fun dresses, gloves, hats and all sorts of fashion accessories from times gone by.

With a pair of long, silky black gloves and a foxtail tossed over my shoulder, I’m admiring a patent leather snap-purse.

“I think you should stick with the red gloves,” I suggest, “seeing as you’re going to wear that skin-tight gown—the one that proves once and for all you’re anorexic. Really, Ruby, shouldn’t you consider getting a little flab somewhere? I mean, living with a size one can be so nerve-racking.”

“Eve, darling,” Ruby begins in “the voice.”

Lecture time. I take a deep breath.

“I’m sure you’re aware…” she begins, pulling the red glove off each of her fingers as she says each word (majorly annoying), “that…for…my…entire…life…of…X…amount…of…years…” The gloves come off and are neatly folded in half and then tossed inside a smart purse, which is dramatically snapped closed. “I have had the dreadful embarrassment—not to mention tiresome—task of having to stuff my brassiere so as to appear to have a woman’s bust—not that of an undeveloped child.”

She reaches over and closes my gaping mouth.

“Now”—she lifts her chin with pride, her foot-high beehive follows—“I certainly don’t expect you to understand my position, but when it comes to filling out a gown, no one does it more lovely than you!”

“Thank you—but…”

She holds up a hand to silence me. “I am sick to bloody death of your yammering on and on about being overweight.” Now she leaps into her perfect imitation of Katharine Hepburn doing Ethel in the movie On Golden Pond. (A favorite video of ours; we know it by heart.) “You’re a grown woman now, Eve—aren’t you tired of it all? Bore Bore Bore. Life marches by.” Ruby smacks my thigh several times. “I suggest you get on with it.”

She takes up the purse, tosses her red boa over a shoulder and marches toward the cottage. About halfway there, she turns back. “Well, don’t just sit there—get in here, we have a Thanksgiving feast to prepare!”

God, I love that size one.

“Howard was kind enough,” Ruby says while giving the big turkey a scrub in the sink, “to provide us with this gigantic bird. Why—we’ll have leftovers for years. Now tell me again, darling, how many are we?”

“Let’s see,” I think while stirring together a big bowl of stuffing. “Howard and Johnny, Lilly, Sam, Bonnie and Charlie, Marsha and you and I make—”

“Nine,” Ruby answers. “Perhaps I should ring Sam and have her think up one more pie.”

Just as the words are out, the phone rings. I wipe my hands on my apron; it’s bright yellow with an endless design of colorful turkeys doing the rumba into an old-fashioned stove centered over my tummy. Lilly got creative with this baby. I pat my towering hairdo and lift the phone.

“Is that you, Sam?” I say into the mouthpiece, knowing full well it is.

Her deep chuckle fills my ear. “I am impressed, child; Now jus’ how many pies is this girl needing to bake? And I have no idea how I’m gunna lay down to sleep with all this hardware you put in my hair.”

“Ruby and I are going to sleep sitting up,” I reply.

I mouth “Sam” to Ruby, who normally would be sticking a lit cigarette into my waiting mouth. Instead, I unravel the cord a bit, pat Rocky’s sleepy head and take a slug of wine.

“Well, that’s just fine for you,” Sam replies. “But I do all my sleeping lying down—thank you kindly—and don’t even think a’ smoking, not one thought of the taste, that tiny little hit of happiness and peace that floods your mind and—”

“Sam—Sam, get a grip, geez.” I shake my head. “I do not think we need any more desserts, two of your finest pies and you—of course—is all we’ll be in need of.”

“Good,” Sam says. “I sure was hoping you’d say that on account of the simple fact that I just finished off lickin’ my mixing bowl and I’d hate to have to go through all that again.”

“Right,” I giggle. “See you ’round one tomorrow then.”

“Not if I see you first,” Sam replies and hangs up.

“That woman,” I offer, then return to my task of cook’s assistant. “What in the world did we used to do with our time, when we lived in Eau Claire? I can’t get over how busy we are and yet we hardly go anywhere.”

“You were just to your father’s,” Ruby reminds me. “Besides, as I see it, we were perhaps preparing for this life here—you know—paving the path, so to speak.”

“Paving the path—what have you been reading?” I lift my arched brows.

Ruby opens a cupboard door, selects a spatterware roasting pot and sets it on the stump table with a thump. Rocky leaps off a bar stool and takes off running into the living room. A record is playing Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band and I love the song “Sunshower,” so I hum along.

“Actually, darling, I’ve been reading more of Ed’s old journal”—we found it when we were moving here—“and it’s quite fascinating. Of course I have my nose into a delicious Patricia Cromwell mystery and also an old touchy-feely book. What’s it called, oh yes—Think on These Things. Very deep.”

“I doubt, with our new belly dancing–yoga and all the apron orders coming in and we can’t forget eating and sleeping—well, there’s probably no time for a book club.”

“You know…” Ruby begins rubbing the turkey with seasoned olive oil. “As much as I think it could be a lovely idea, I don’t know that I’d want to be told what titles to read. Seems a bit much like university to me and I’ve no interest in being that accountable.”

“All the years of listening to my clients’ book club choices—it honestly helped me. I mean, it’s overwhelming when you go to a bookstore and there’s table after table of books. I really prefer the little book shops where the people working there actually read.”

“Like that lovely shop in Bayfield?”

“Now that season’s over,” I say, coming over to Ruby in order to scoop this yummy stuffing into the bird while she holds it open, “they’ve cut their hours to the bone.”

“How dreadful, but my dear…there must be hundreds of titles in our library and I know there’s more to be found about the cottage as well. You’ll never run out, I promise. Now be a love and fetch that ball of twine over there.”

I hand it to her and she expertly sews the hole closed. Then I pull open drawers until I locate all the different rolls of plastic wraps and wax paper and—bingo! I pull a long roll of foil out and hand it to Chef Ruby. She measures it this way and that and then ends up making a tent out of several pieces; this is one honking bird.

“Pull open the fridge, would you, dear?”

I do and then step back a ways.

“My heavens,” she says as she huffs the foil-covered pan down and into the lower shelf. She hips the door closed. And dramatically wipes her forehead. “Good to have that lot done. Now on to the broccoli cheese casserole and we’re practically finished. Good thing we divvied up the menu to everyone. I love that kind of outsourcing. Then we’ll be in need of something to eat ourselves tonight—won’t we?”

Normally I’d make some crack about how I really don’t need a thing to eat for, say, a year or two, seeing as I’ve got snacks hanging off my plump thighs like ornaments on a tree. But Ruby has a point and I really need to accept the fact that this is me and it’s okay. Did I just think that?

Look at her, what a riot, wearing a sassy, frilly fifties apron covered with a floral pattern over a sleek walking number of cool blue. Even with a beehive, she’s a classy broad. What will the boys think of our hair? They’ll want it.

“Ed used to say,” Ruby comments, giving the colander holding dripping broccoli heads a shake, “that I was born chained to the cooker. I enjoy the most wonderful feeling when I’m cooking up something. Must be a DNA thing.”

“Do I have to grate all this Asiago cheese?” I ask and know the answer. “It’s hard as a rock and this grater is a piece of shit!”

“Use this, darling.”

She rummages in a drawer and then hands me a small grinder with a handle. I load in a hard chunk, close the little presser thing and start cranking out little slivers of smelly cheese. Much better and no damage to these nails either.

“All those years,” I say, “of you bringing this casserole over to the salon for Thanksgiving—I had no idea the hell you went through.”

“That’s the hardest part, all that grating. Do you some good.”

In a big yellow mixing bowl, she tosses freshly washed, and now chopped, broccoli. Then gives the onions on the stove a good stirring. The smell is divine. I finish with the cheese and move on to chopping up a pile of garlic. We’ll add this to the onion, and even Rocky, who’s now back, lounging on the countertop, is taking notice of the aromas oozing around the kitchen.

“Let’s beat three eggs and then pour that in here with the broccoli, shall we?”

“You got it—boss lady,” I say, and do as I’m instructed.

Adding the caramelized onions, salt and fresh pepper, I mix the whole shebang and pour it into an oiled, glass lasagna pan. Ruby covers it with wax paper and shoves it into the already packed fridge.

“How does frozen pizza sound?” Ruby suggests and I grin.

“I can preheat like a pro.” And so I do.

“A true lifesaver.” Ruby hands me a steaming hot plate to dry. “I think it’s off to bed for me. I simply must find out whose finger it was they found in the marmalade.”

“Yeah, a thing like that would have me on the edge of my seat, too. What great things to read about right before falling asleep. Do you like nightmares?”

“I sleep like a baby,” Ruby replies. “I simply like the mystery of it. If there happens to be some gruesome details involving body parts—well—all the better.”

“You really are nuts, woman.”

“I should think—I’m living up here with you—aren’t I?”

“You’ve got a point there.”

I’m all snuggly warm under several quilts, surrounded by fluffed-up pillows and a snoring Rocky off to my side. I do this every year about this time: review my life and try to be thankful about the good stuff and not too pissed about the crap. The truth behind why we really celebrate Thanksgiving is so embarrassing, for lack of better words. I mean, we did it right here on this beautiful island, came in and either killed or at least chased all the Indians away. From their land!

Then we held a big catered party and were thankful. I don’t celebrate that. I try and face that horrible truth, somehow forgive my forefathers and then do my “year in review” with a clearer conscience. Like any of the wars we’ve been in—nothing good comes. People die, for what? Land? Let’s face it, we’re all just renters anyway…

I have to stop. My heart gets beating and I’ll never get to sleep. Okay, let’s start over. I’m thankful for this place, this cozy bed, Rocky not having gas tonight, Ruby, the green turban she wrapped around my hairdo, the…I drift away.